


Whiskey on the rocks

by ElnaK



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: M/M, Nightmares, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Sorry Not Sorry, Time in the ice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 08:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElnaK/pseuds/ElnaK
Summary: Tony keeps Steve at a distance, just like he does alcohol.Steve blames Tony for being too much like the ice.





	1. Here lay the lie

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bleak outlook on their relathionship. You can have it much more hopeful/good/... but this is, like, one of the most unpleasant sides of it, so of course I'm not talking about the pleasant stuff. ( Merry Christmas? Never heard of it ).

Tony'd been in love a few times in his life – generally with a terrible outcome at the end, because that was how it worked, wasn't it? – but there were only three people his thought went back to whenever he didn't have anyone in his life. Three people who, maybe, could be called the loves of his life – not that the other ones didn't matter, of course they did, you could have a perfectly happy relationship with someone who didn't tear your soul apart constantly, in fact, it might even be better for you.

There were a number of things in Tony's life that could be considered especially important to him – usually in a terrible way, because that was how it worked, wasn't it? – and one of those things was alcohol. Alongside it was the need to help, to be useful, to do everything he could and hope it would be enough. It wasn't particularly surprising that, as it had become more and more obvious that no, it wouldn't ever be enough, alcohol had managed to take a hold of him, to make itself more and more necessary to his holding it all together – to him still being in a state to do something useful, even if it wasn't enough, if it wouldn't ever be enough.

Three people who ate at his sanity, that his heart told him to be happy with, that it would work – except, of course that wasn't true. Actual experience told him this was all a lie, this was fake, there was nothing else than hurt down that road, and more than anything else that pain wasn't worth even the few moments of true happiness thrown in the middle.

It didn't really matter, as it was, that it wouldn't ever be enough. With a drink, Tony could forget that, and simply concentrate on doing what he could, on the fact that at least he'd done his best. It was keeping the collapse at bay, it was keeping him operational, so, really, it was for the best, for everyone, and for him too. And, well. If sometimes he ended up thinking back on how it really, really wasn't enough, a glass of brandy could take care of it. The alcohol would numb it all, and he'd be able to go back to working on making the world a better place – or at least trying. Which was better than him being paralyzed by the hurt and the doubt and the fact that it would never be enough. At least, this way, he could do something good – until, of course, he couldn't anymore.

A lie – not that difficult to say, really. People kept saying that some things were worth living, even if they hurt when they were taken away, because you'd still have the memories, because you'd have been happy for a time if nothing more, and that was worth more than anything else. Which was all fine and dandy, except Tony could hardly even remember the good times, now. The taint of what came after was corrupting it all, and frankly even back then the good times had generally not been so good on his side of the equation, no matter what the others would say, no matter what they thought they knew. No matter that for them, the good times had been worth it.

Alcohol could do that, too. It told you everything was going to be okay, that you'd done enough, that you couldn't have done more – that you'd sacrificed your life and your blood and possibly your soul, and no one could expect more because there wasn't more to be given. It told you that if it wasn't working, it wasn't your fault, it was because either it couldn't be done or the others hadn't done their part, and that was what mattered, because it wasn't your fault. Except, of course, true as it might sometimes be – that it wasn't your fault – it still wasn't the important part. Here lay the lie: whether or not it was your fault, the important part was that it wasn't working.

There was Pepper. At first Tony hadn't really noticed her, because he'd been too young and trying to find something to do with his life – and not succeeding – then because he'd been too busy trying to be a better person after his parents' death, finally because he'd been too hurt and trying to keep himself alive after Afghanistan. Then he'd noticed her, her crush on him, and against all judgment he'd fallen in love too, slowly, dangerously – except he couldn't, because he had secrets, because he was dying, because she'd be in danger, because, because, because. He'd noticed that despite her protesting, she kind of liked Happy when he hired him, and well. That was really a better option, and it wasn't like he could force them to like each other, if they decided to give it a go it would be their decision, no matter that he'd encouraged it. After that... After that it'd been too late, and it would have been cruel and selfish to recall her from her happy life with Happy just because now his heart was fixed, because now he could offer her more – if not absolutely everything she deserved.

A drink would stop him from focusing on that too much, as it was, and if he didn't spend that much time being sorry for himself, for something that wouldn't have worked – not because of them, simply because of the circumstances – it meant he could spend more time working on something useful. Something that would help people.

There was Rumiko. She'd been a bit childish at times, and vindictive, and she was probably the one who illustrated the best that you didn't always fall in love with people who made you feel good, because Christ, the hurt she'd caused him – some of it wasn't quite her fault, more the circumstances', the fact that she hadn't known, and really it was pretty understandable that she hadn't always taken it well, even when he hadn't had a choice either. It was one of those cases, in which you hurt together but it still seemed preferable than hurting separately. She'd had a life in her too, an energy to love and be happy, something that he needed more than anything else, because he sure as hell didn't remember how to make it for himself. Which made it only that much more ironic that she'd been killed to get at him – it made him feel like a leech, like he'd taken her life away because he'd needed it and now she didn't have any left.

Slowly, the drinks had become more than a crutch, more than a way to make him able to work, and by the time he'd noticed, well. Too late, wasn't it. The damage was done – and he still needed the crutch, but now the crutch had become more of a problem than the limping it was supposed to correct had ever been, so he guessed that meant he should just suck it up and be confronted with the reality, the fact that it would never be enough, that he still ought to try, until there was nothing left to give, because at least that way he'd have tried and it wouldn't be his fault when the world would crumble down as he had.

There was Steve. That one had been a bit of a surprise, honestly, because Tony had always admired Captain America, and when they'd found him of course he'd wanted to be his friend, to be there for him, but he hadn't expected to fall in love with the guy all of a sudden and without a warning. Either way, here they were, and Tony knew perfectly well – after almost two decades of experience, mind you, it wasn't just a guess, it wasn't just him deciding he knew better than anyone else, it was him having eyes and looking at the evidences and being willing to accept the obvious – that it couldn't work. It would be great, it would be incredible, it would make him able to work better, to be more useful, to be more efficient – until, of course, it wouldn't anymore.

Alcohol had done that very well, too, until it had brought it all down to a stop, until the collapse couldn't be held off anymore, until it had all fallen into pieces and there was nothing left to salvage – not yet, at least, not so quickly, and the road to recovery had been long and during all that time he'd been useless and inefficient and a waste of space. It had made him able to hold on, until he couldn't anymore.

If Steve let him down – and he would, because Steve always did, because the moment the situation wasn't something Steve wanted to look at and admit that they'd need to correct and it wouldn't be pretty, it wouldn't be all-american and principled, not if they wanted it to work, his first reaction was always, without fail, to turn his back on Tony while conjuring up reasons why he was justified in doing so and not even try to trust him just a little bit, to give him the benefit of the doubt, to listen and understand that maybe the situation wasn't quite as grim as he'd thought, even if it wasn't perfect either – Tony wouldn't be able to crawl back up – at least not yet, not right away, and who knew what kind of damage would be done while he tried not to put a bullet in his head?

A drink wouldn't be an option, this time.

This wasn't something he would be able to brush off with the knowledge that at least he tried, at least he gave it all and if it didn't work it wasn't his fault but Steve's – because no matter what the man thought, he wasn't the one who always ruined them, he wasn't the one who walked away whenever there was even the smallest doubt, whenever Tony couldn't put their friendship first because the world was more important and that was it – because in the end it would still be broken, it would still be ruined.

Tony had long stopped drinking, but he always kept a bottle of alcohol around, just to make sure he could still say no. Just to make sure he was still able to recognize what was more important, his mental comfort or the consequences if he went back to the bottle.

He supposed the same could be said, amongst other things, for keeping Steve at arm's length.

 


	2. Out cold

Steve hadn't given it much of a thought at first – but at first, Tony had only been Mr. Stark, that admittedly gorgeous, kind, rich, perfect man who'd taken in him after his bodyguard had found Steve in a block of ice in Antartica. So, yes, occasionally he'd appreciated the view, sometimes he'd even wondered what exactly it would be like to get in bed with that man – because, seriously? – but like always, he hadn't acted on it, because Steve didn't do one night stands, and Mr. stark wasn't someone he knew well enough to go and start a relationship with. Moreover, Mr. Stark didn't seem to be interested in men, as later evidenced by the fact that Tiberius Stone had been completely obsessed with him and Tony had just not seemed to realize it until the guy turned into a supervillain and forced his obsession onto Tony's own subconcious. Either way, it hadn't been an issue.

Sometimes Steve would wake up in the middle of the night – cold, always so, so cold, no matter the heat, no matter the blankets – from a nightmare of the ice, one of slowly losing all awareness – it hurt, he'd fallen, he'd crashed into the freezing water, where was Bucky, he needed to do something, he needed to see if perhaps Bucky was still alive, he'd been knocked unconscious when he'd fallen and he had no idea where Bucky had ended up but now he was awake and he couldn't move and he was going to fall asleep again – of being unable to do anything, and he wasn't even sure if it was only a dream or if it had really happened, he didn't remember ever waking up, but what if he had, what if...?

Iron Man, more often than not, would already be in the mansion's library, or he'd be joining Steve after a few minutes – now he had to wonder if maybe Tony had been tinkering in his lab at the mansion and had had some kind of alarm alerting him whenever Steve ended up in the library after dark. They'd talk, or they'd simply spend some time together, and Steve, Steve... Steve would end up forgetting about the cold that wasn't there, more efficiently than if he'd gone and sat by a fireplace. Iron Man was the one who kept him out of ice, after having been one of those who'd retrieved him from it.

Tony could be about as pale as Steve was when he forgot to leave his workshop for weeks – okay, to be honest, that happened less often than you'd think, and generally the reason was because he'd been captured, thrown in a cave where the sun didn't reach, and forced to make weapons for a supervillain, which usually ended with the supervillain being blown to hell, you'd think they'd learn – but generally he had that slight tan that made him look healthy – when Steve really thought about it, prolonged hospital stays had the same effect of ridding Tony of his tan. In other words, Steve really didn't like seeing Tony completely pale – because it meant he wasn't in good health – because it reminded him of the ice.

For years after that initial meeting, when Steve had found out who really was under the Iron Man helmet, when Tony had helped him find Bucky, when, when, when – all the times Iron Man had helped Captain America, all the times Tony had been there for Steve... All that time, Tony had been one of those who could really help Steve keep warm. There was Sam, of course, Sam was Steve's best pal. There was Sharon, too, but then Sharon had died, except she hadn't, and they had tried again, and it hadn't worked, and they had gone back at it, and Steve always made the same mistake, didn't he, he always tried to decide what was best for her, except she didn't let herself be relegated to a desk job or a life at the house just because he was worried for her safety – not that he'd ever admit that, because he did know better, of course he did, he had legitimate reasons for wanting her out of the field, like that time her ex had died during the Philadelphia attack and it turned out Bucky had done it, of course he had legitimate reasons. There had been others, too, like Rachel, but it had always come to a stop and maybe that should have told him something.

One of the things Steve really had a hard time dealing with, as it was, was that Tony's eyes were beautiful – of course they were, like anything about Tony wasn't – but they were also the color of the ice. Cold blue, cold, cold, cold, even when the eyes themselves weren't cold, when there was so much warmth, so much goodness in them – and hurt, and pain, and despair – it was visible in how Tony could look at people, at catastrophes, at the end of the world and still look like he wanted to do more, like it was his fault – at least somewhat, at least partially – that the world wasn't perfect, but whenever something happened, whenever Steve got angry with Tony, he could only see the cold, he could only see the ice, everything he had lost to the ice without any regards to what he'd already sacrificed, to what he deserved, and sometimes, sometimes he wondered if everything else, if all that he'd seen in Tony's eyes over the years, if it was only a mask, as was everything else – it was well hidden, after all, because Tony couldn't afford to let it show too much, and maybe, maybe Steve had imagined things that weren't there, maybe he'd been wrong and had taken the pretense for a reality, just because it was easier than to admit that he had fallen in love with the ice that had taken everything from him so, so long ago.

Understanding that he loved Tony had taken him a long time, really, and more than anything else, it had happened the worst way possible. Tony had been falling into himself, had been letting go of everything, and Steve had... Steve had tried to go and talk to him, twice, the first time with Jan, the second time alone, and Tony hadn't wanted his help. Tony had shut them out, the first time, so Steve had gone back and demanded answers – and to this day, he still didn't get what else he could have done, the idea that maybe demanding answers and responsibilities from a man who was being crushed under too much of that to begin with might not be the right way to go at it had not really taken – and Tony still hadn't given him any.

Steve barely had any memories of the burn of alcohol, just a few glasses from before the serum, something that he hadn't really been in any state to appreciate with his ailing health and the reality that he was out after one glass of irish whiskey – supposing he even had the money to pay for it. That, and he really didn't enjoy the memory of his father, drunken asshole who wasn't quite in control of his anger and his fists whenever he'd drunk too much, which happened often. He really didn't understand why Tony would let it control him, and more than that, Tony had so much to lose, why would he risk it all for a bottle of alcohol?

So Tony had taken himself out of Steve's hands, hadn't trusted him, hadn't wanted to be with him – not even as a friend, as someone who could help, as someone who cared – and it was like the ice a second time, the world taking itself away from Steve, leaving him with nothing but his pain and what he didn't have anymore, except this time the world was Tony and Tony was taking himself away voluntarily because he didn't care enough for Steve to give him answers, to want to overcome whatever was happening to him for Steve if not for himself. Steve had thought of the ice in Tony's eyes, and how it couldn't be seen when Tony drank, and sometimes, when he was angry at him, when he wanted to erase Tony – and all the times he'd betrayed him – from the world, he wondered if maybe Tony hadn't been trying to melt the ice away with the burn of alcohol – but that generally lead him to consider that one way or another, the ice or the drinks, Steve couldn't, shouldn't love Tony Stark, because he either was what had taken it all from Steve, or what had taken it all from his father, from Tony himself.

So sometimes he wondered what was the worst, Tony being the ice, or Tony trying not to be the ice, and depending on the situation – when Tony went against him, of course he'd rather have given Tony the bottle himself, because wouldn't that be better than the ice, even if when the alcohol melt the cold away there would be nothing left of the ice, nothing left of Tony, just some water, like the corpse of an ice cube? – he changed his mind – when Tony gave in to the alcohol, of course he'd rather have the ice, and how could Tony be so selfish? – and still managed to be angry at Tony – because if he wasn't angry at Tony, then what did he have left?

Now Steve was in love with the ice, and there was nothing that could hurt him like the ice, so of course it was Tony's fault for being the ice to begin with, for not trying to be a warm fire, someone who could keep Steve comfortable even when the cold seaped in through his nightmares, for not being better – for always trying to be better but never in the ways that would make it good, never in the ways that would work, never mind that his general plan for Tony to be better was as simple and vague and unhelpful as Tony being better, point.

Tony had never taken the cold away, not really, he guessed. What he'd done was make it seem better than it really was, making it seems like a good thing, almost. After all, without the ice Steve would never have met Tony Stark. After all, without the ice, Zemo's plane would still have been blown up, Steve would still have fallen, out cold, and then he'd have drowned in the sea – without the ice.

Today too, the ice was keeping him alive, no matter the price, whether he wanted it or not.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Tony didn't manage to keep Steve alive after CW, but he doesn't do miracles, and when someone put themselves as a public enemy ( with or without reason, not the point ) then surrender, of course they are making themselves an easy target for their numerous and murderous enemies. Steve put himself there.
> 
> Also, I've been talking ( commenting ) about Tony's isolation from the rest of the superhero community, and I don't want you to misunderstand: I know his friends care about him. They do. But they do it more often the wrong way than the right way. Whenever something happens, it always about them, about how they've been hurt, about how he didn't put them first, about how he didn't trust them enough ( never mind that they didn't trust him back, not even the benefit of the doubt ), about how they are angry at him. It's very rarely abouthis own fear, about why he did it, about his lack of choice on the matter, about how it might not have been about them to begin with, about being supportive, about asking if he'd thought of other ways and why he didn't go with those, and even when it is, it's always after a first outburst of anger/distrust/...  
> And yeah, you have a right to be angry. But if you're always making it about you, how do you justify calling Tony selfish/egocentric/...? When you're obviously the one who's making it all personal and never considering that he might have his reasons ( which, btw, doesn't usually entice someone to share said reasons with you ).


End file.
